An Unexpected Visitor
by BloggerOnBakerStreet
Summary: Set post-Reichenbach. John Watson has been left to cope with his best friend Sherlock's suicide for two years. How will he react when someone, the last person he'd expect, visits him? [Please leave reviews as I'm quite new to writing fan fiction! Thanks]
1. Chapter 1

He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes past nine. He should probably be thinking of leaving . Deliberately taking his time in checking the bill and fixing the tablecloth, John reflected.

It had been a mistake, coming here. The restaurant itself was nice enough, but having to face yet another reminder of his situation… it was almost too much to bear. As usual, John had been eating alone, with nothing to distract him from the hollow feeling in his heart. He should have been used to his solitary state, after all this time, but it was still hard to ignore the stares of his fellow diners. He could almost hear what they were thinking: _Poor man. Poor, lonely man_. John couldn't help thinking that maybe… maybe they were right. The thought seemed to suffocate him: he needed to get out of here. He pulled on his coat and grabbed his cane paid for the meal and stepped out into the dark street outside, the crisp December wind piercing his face.

The last few months had been painful. He hadn't been himself, not since- since-. He stopped himself. But the name was already in his mind, on his lips, before he knew it. _Sherlock. _He willed himself not to let the pain show, but the horror of losing his friend, his best friend, threatened to overwhelm John, and he felt a pricking in his eyes. Tears. He hurriedly wiped them away and quickened his pace, avoiding eye contact with passers-by. They wouldn't care, he thought. No one really had. Except him. Although when they were trying to help, they all insisted that they 'knew what he was going through'. He knew they didn't. They had always questioned why he stuck with Sherlock, anyway. Didn't understand. Couldn't understand. Which was why they found the lie so, so easy to believe.

A fresh wave of anger, of injustice, flooded his veins. _He_ had done what he'd promised all along: to destroy Sherlock. To _burn_ him. John remembered their last encounter – he'd almost been blown up - as a shiver ran down his spine. _Moriarty_. He'd managed to put doubt in everyone's minds. Even his own, he thought, suddenly ashamed. But he had soon realised what the truth was. The papers had loved it all, of course. They'd presented Sherlock as a fraud, a liar, a cheat. But John could never believe that now. He just couldn't…

His hand shook slightly as he reached forward to open the door. Home. Except it wasn't anymore. Not without… _him_…. It was like an empty cage, a shell. He would have moved away – away from the memories, away from the pain – but he had nowhere else to go. John knew he wouldn't have accepted help anyway, even if someone, a relative maybe, had offered. He was too stubborn for that. He climbed the stairs somewhat awkwardly, supported by both his cane and the handrail. Images, memories, flashed through his mind as he remembered a time when he was able to sprint up these steps, caught up in an adventure. He stopped halfway, unable to go any further as he tried to block the flow of memories. _The intense playing of a violin in the early hours of the morning… Gunshots through the wall… A head in the fridge… _A head in the fridge. God, Sherlock…

It was later on in the evening. The flat had a depressing emptiness about it: all the lights were off, the curtains were drawn shut and there was a crackle of static from the TV. John sat in the front room, staring into space. He had tried, for a while, to focus on something else, attempted to read one of the books on the shelf. But the book now lay forgotten by his side. John was starting to think about turning the TV off and heading to bed, when he heard footsteps on the stairs. At first, he thought he was just making the noises up, that they weren't really there, but then he heard the unmistakeable sound of a creak as someone paused for a moment outside the door.

'Mrs Hudson?' called John in a cracked voice: he wondered when he had last spoken to another person. There was no reply, and John sensed a change in the atmosphere of the flat. Who was it? And what the hell were they doing, lurking in the stairwell?

'Mycroft!' he shouted. 'If that's you, I've had enough of your shit, just say what you have to say and get out!'

Silence. Again. John approached the door: half cautious, half not caring if it was dangerous. Eventually, he decided to nudge the door open slowly. A tall figure was silhouetted in the hallway. John opened the door a little wider, so he could see the face of the stranger in the light. Who he saw, John could never have been prepared for in all of his life.


	2. Chapter 2

John gasped. He grabbed the door to steady himself: in the heat of the moment, he'd forgotten to pick up his cane.

'Sherlock?' he breathed. 'What-what the hell-?'

Sherlock stepped forward into the flat. He looked the same as when John had last seen him alive: dark trenchcoat with the collar turned up, a blue scarf wrapped around his neck.

'John-John, I-'

'Is this some - sick joke?' choked John.

Sherlock shook his head in silence.

'But-but you were dead, Sherlock,' said John, and he started to feel anger overwhelming his shock. 'You - were - _DEAD_! What did you think you were _DOING_? _I thought I'd lost you_ - these months have been _ABSOLUTE HELL FOR ME, SHERLOCK_! _AND YOU DON'T GIVE A SHIT, DO YOU? NO, BECAUSE YOU'RE BLOODY SHERLOCK HOLMES AND ALL YOU CARE ABOUT IS YOUR DAMN INTELLIGENCE!'_

The anger that had built up inside him over the past few months was now flooding out of him. John didn't care. All he wanted right now was for Sherlock to be in pain, the same pain he himself had suffered for the past few months.

Sherlock hadn't said a word while John was yelling at him. Now, he simply looked at him, fear – actual fear, in his eyes and he opened his mouth to speak.

'John, listen to me-'

'_AND WHY SHOULD I?_'

'_Because you don't understand!'_

'What?' John spoke quietly, all of a sudden: a warning sign. 'What did you say?'

Sherlock hesitated. 'I said you don't- you don't underst-'

He was cut off as John lunged for him, punching him hard on the side of his face. The force was enough to make Sherlock fall to the ground, and he gasped as he felt for the bruise that would soon be blossoming on his face.

As soon as he did it, John regretted hitting Sherlock. He sat down abruptly, not looking at him. The shock was coming back. What the hell was going on? Was this even real?

'John, please listen to me, _please_,' whispered Sherlock. John looked up and, startled, saw a single tear running down his face. The voice in his head was telling him to drop it, just let it go: Sherlock was hurting. Actually hurting. But something made him keep going: he _wanted_ Sherlock to be in pain. He _wanted_ him to hurt.

'_What could you _possibly_ say that could convince me that- that-?'_

'Just _listen_, please, John,' Sherlock whispered. 'I did it to- to protect you-'

'What?' said John quietly. 'Protect me? Since when did making me suffer _months_ of depression – the bloody _dark ages_ – help protect me from _anything_?!' His voice was rising again, uncontrollably.

'He's gone… Moriarty's gone… I had to make sure you were safe. Please listen,' added Sherlock, as John started to interrupt. 'You saw it all, it was a mess, the press were being a nightmare, Moriarty- he had- there were gunmen- they were going to- I had to protect you.'

There was a silence after he had finished. John looked down at the ground again. What the hell was he meant to believe? He ran his hands over his head restlessly, thinking hard. Of course he was glad Sherlock was alive, but he just couldn't let go of the fact that he'd _wasted_ months spent in depression, while clever little Sherlock had been off on his own, making everyone believe that he was dead. And John felt a fool, falling for a lie like that. He closed his eyes tightly and counted to ten in his head. Tried to think clearly. What he wanted more than anything was to forgive Sherlock, to understand that he was only trying to protect him. All he wanted, John admitted, was to hold him and tell him that everything was going to be okay. But he couldn't. He just couldn't. Not now.

John stood up suddenly, almost losing his balance as dizziness washed through him. Sherlock, having raised himself from the floor, grabbed his arm, holding him steady, concern flashing across his slate-grey eyes, his pale face.

'Are you alright, John? Are you okay?' There was panic in his voice. Strange, thought John.

'I need some fresh air,' muttered John, not looking at Sherlock in case he broke down completely. He turned away sharply, grabbing his coat from the door as he walked out of the flat.

'John!'

He didn't look back, hurrying down the stairs to the street below. Think. He needed to think.


End file.
